


pick your poison

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A coda, not for a certain episode so much as a quote. (I know, the title is awful.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	pick your poison

**Author's Note:**

> A coda, not for a certain episode so much as a quote. (I know, the title is awful.)

“I’m poison.”

The first time Dean Winchester says it, there is laughter. A girl, saddled on his lap, grins and locks of dark, rumpled hair splayed across her shoulders. His hands trace the spot where he can feel her pulse, a thrum of staccato beats. Planes of smooth, pale skin and he takes care not to break any of it.

-

“I’m poison.”

The second time Dean Winchester says it, a hiss snaps up the silence and crumples it into an illusion. The monster at his wrist shrivels up and ceases to plague the local hospitals. His veins burn for days afterwards, and he wakes up writhing for days, but he’s not scared. Because even if the toxic seems too gentle, it killed an unholy creature – and no matter how unfortunate it is, he’s still alive.

-

“I’m poison.”

Dean Winchester drinks frequently, but he doesn’t enjoy the fire that carves out scars in his throat. It’s lava flow, and the burn ripples inside him with each swallow, but this is the only way he escapes the nightmares. The dreams that come all too often when he is sleeping peacefully, dissolving the tranquility and torturing his mind. It’s a thick, dark tar that encases his heart for days on end, smoking and squelching and burning up the life inside him. Alcohol hurts. But not as much as the reality that presses in on him when his eyes flit closed.

-

“I’m poison.”

Dean Winchester stands by a small pond. He is sitting down, and the water occasionally breaches his space. It’s cold and clear and comforting.

Castiel nods. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and Dean knows he’s tired as he walks around the pond.

He feels a strange fondness for the angel.

“You are the worst type of poison,” Castiel sighs. Dean knows.

-

Dean sleeps one night in early May, and Castiel sits across the room, saddened.

Dean Winchester has poison spilling over his lips every time he speaks.

It’s addictive. It’s sweet and soft like butterfly wings, and upon closer inspection, his eyes are set alight with the love that burns up in his heart when he displays affection.

Dean Winchester is a deadly weapon, and Castiel has never seen poison quite like him.

Dean Winchester is made of love.

Castiel observes this, sometimes grappling with greed, but he keeps what he thinks is a safe distance. 

He knows the boy can’t always see it, can’t see the overwhelming waves of adoration that flood his head (and with it, his rationality.)

Castiel watches Dean garden himself, knowing the boy thinks he is the kind of poison that boils your blood and cuts off your desire to live.

Castiel sometimes thinks that he’s growing a garden himself.

Dean Winchester’s poison is scarcely comprehensible, but at the same time there is only so much to fathom. It’s just love, addictive and trusting and loyal and endless. And it’s cruel, because once it’s taken away, all the bones in your body seem to be made of paper and your skin is just a frozen river waiting for the Spring to make it run and crash.

Castiel keeps away, watching the boy blossom and flower and bloom. He can hear someone approaching, so he gives him one last glance, knowing there is too much desire in his stare, and then he is gone.


End file.
